Usha Palat has a MPhil in English Literature, and is married with one daughter.
Truth
You skirted the truth,
becoming adept
at tiptoeing daintily,
not tripping on the edges.
It was a balancing act.
Like a trapeze artist,
you took your pole
and balanced on a tightrope,
flying from it when the time was right.
You felt dizzied at the sin,
you felt the truth dazzled
with all its might.
And yet, you knew,
the truth always emerged
triumphant,
and the avoidance,
the holding back,
was like packing sin in a suitcase
and never letting it out.
Train Journeys
The couple beside us
whispered sweet nothings
into each other’s ears.
The compartment of air-conditioned comfort
felt claustrophobic.
The outside bustle of coolies
and neon lit stations,
a silent movie.
The train jerked, suddenly
displacing its even motion.
The couple smiled with
the smile of newly-weds
wanting to be left alone.
I dug deeper into my book.
The grime of the starched sheets
and half-washed blanket
touched my skin.
My daughter clambered onto the upper berth.
The night sky, blacker through tinted glass
streaked with droplets of rain
raced past.
I slept.
At every station I shuddered awake.
At last dawn peeked through the tinted glass.
Madras Central, last stop, hounded by coolies
and taxi touts.
We left the station, dragging suitcases into a taxi.
I felt the numbness of a bad night’s sleep.
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